


The Winter Smizer

by heyjupiter



Series: When Things Start Getting Real [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 19:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16771690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyjupiter/pseuds/heyjupiter
Summary: Bucky only auditioned for the Armed Forces cycle of America's Next Top Model because he lost a bet with Natasha; he never dreamed that he'd actually get cast on the show. But when he discovers his childhood best friend Steve working behind the scenes, Bucky hopes he can go home with an even bigger prize than a modeling contract.





	1. Archived Communiqués

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alrightythenokeydoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alrightythenokeydoke/gifts).



> I offered to write a Marvel reality television fusion for the [2018 Marvel Trumps Hate auction](https://marveltrumpshate.tumblr.com/), and my lovely winning bidder alrightythenokeydoke requested a Bucky/Skinny Steve ANTM AU, which was a blast to write! Thanks to them for their generous donation and fun request!
> 
> Thanks also to my excellent beta reader Amy, who graciously shared her expertise in the realms of the MCU and reality television.
> 
> This (obviously fictional) cycle of ANTM is set in the earlier years of the show, before Jay Manuel left. 
> 
> This work contains mentions of PTSD and combat injuries, though nothing particularly graphic.

Dear Sgt. Barnes,

Thank you for your service. I'm so sorry you got hurt, but I appreciate everything you did to keep our country safe. I hope you feel better soon.

Lots of love,

Kit Renner, Age 7  
Adopt-a-Hero Program

PS: If you get a hook for a hand will you please send me a picture of it?

* * *

Dear Bucky,

Congratulations on your Purple Heart, but I was so sorry to hear about the circumstances. You were always one of my favorite students--even in kindergarten I could tell you were going to be somebody special. My knitting circle and I have all been keeping you in our prayers. We're all sending you so much love and support. I hope you can feel it.

Love,

Mrs. Irene Esposito

* * *

Bucky,

I couldn't believe when I heard about what happened to you and your squad. I'm so sorry. But I'm so glad you're alive. Hearing how close you came to death made me realize how important you are to me. I love you, Bucky. I just wanted you to know that.

Please let me know as soon as you're able to receive visitors so I can tell you again in person.

Love,

Steve

* * *

New York Regional Office of Veterans Affairs Community Services Bulletin Board Posting:

Roommate Wanted, Brooklyn

Former Green Beret seeks roommate. Ideal candidate will be quiet and amenable to unusual sleeping schedules. Two blocks from the 3 train. One cat. Email Natasha.Romanoff@gmail.com for details. No creeps, please.

* * *

Casting Call: Veterans Wanted

Tyra Wants YOU! America's Next Top Model is celebrating America's heroes! The upcoming cycle will exclusively feature veterans of the US Armed Forces (all branches) who are interested in pursuing modeling as part of their civilian life. All genders welcome, ages 21-30. To apply, upload a short video explaining why you want to be on America's Next Top Model and attach proof of military service.


	2. Selective Service

"Uh, hi, my name is James Buchanan Barnes, I'm 22, former U.S. Army Sergeant. I'm from Brooklyn and, uh, I want to be on America's Next Top Model because I lost a bet with my roommate."

Nat scowled and turned off the camera. "Bucky, you have to do it for real! Tyra will never pick you if you say it's for a bet."

"She'll never pick me anyway, so what does it matter?"

"It matters because that's the bet, you coward."

Bucky raised his eyebrows. "It's like that?"

Nat’s expression softened infinitesimally. "It's like that because I think it would be good for you to get out of the fucking house once in a while. And you _did_ lose the bet."

"Okay, fine, I'll try again." Bucky stood straight against their apartment's exposed brick wall, with his prosthetic arm hung at his side and his flesh arm crossed self-consciously over his chest. 

"Put both hands at your side," Nat ordered. "Look natural!"

"This is literally the most unnatural thing I could possibly do," Bucky said.

" _Try_."

Bucky sighed and adjusted his posture. "Better?"

Nat gave him a thumbs up. "Okay, I'm recording...now."

"My name is Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes, I'm 22, I'm from Brooklyn, and I want to be on America's Next Top Model because, uh, I dunno, it's hard to hold down a real job when you've still got PTSD from getting the injury that forced you to leave your last job, so I guess I might as well try modeling."

"Dammit, Bucky!"

"Okay, if it's so easy, you do it."

"Fine," Nat said. She handed him the camera and took Bucky's place by the wall. Unlike Bucky, she looked like she could be a model in her black skinny jeans and tank top. She struck a pose and said, "My name is Sgt. Natasha Romanoff, I'm 25, I live in Brooklyn, and I'm a former Green Beret. I want to be on America's Next Top Model because I want to empower young women to believe that their strength and their scars are what makes them beautiful." She lifted the edge of her tank top to reveal the scars on her torso and winked at the camera.

"Damn, Nat, that was good!" 

"See? It's easy. How many episodes of this show have we seen? You know what they want to hear. I'm rooting for you, Tiffany!"

Bucky ran his hand through his hair, which he maybe should have washed before making this video. It _was_ true that he'd seen a lot of episodes of ANTM; he and Nat spent a lot of insomniac nights watching mindless reality television.

"Okay, fine." He posed again and said, "My name is Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes, and I want to be on America's Next Top Model because...because since I got home from Afghanistan, I've felt really self-conscious about my prosthetic arm and my scars. But, uh, my friends tell me that those are what makes me beautiful, so I guess I'd like to...help others feel the same way."

Nat smiled. "See, I knew you could do it." She sat down on the living room couch and fired up her laptop. Bucky peered over her shoulder.

"Wait, you're not actually submitting this, are you?"

"Why wouldn't I? You lost the bet. And the deadline to enter for the armed forces cycle of America's Next Top Model is this Friday."

"I thought maybe the bet was just to make me make that video, so you could post it on Facebook or something." Bucky eschewed social media, but he knew that Nat sometimes posted updates about her weird roommate. He knew this because occasionally friends of hers came over and said things like, "Oh, you must be Nat's weird roommate Bucky, I saw a picture of the mushrooms you tried to grow in your closet." 

"Nope. You're all in, Bucky."

"Well...you should enter too, then."

"But I won the bet."

"But you might actually win the _show_ , Nat. You're gorgeous and that video was good."

Nat flipped her hair. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Plus, what if I go on the show and have to sublet my room? You'd hate to live with a stranger. Better if we both go."

Nat nodded once. "That's a fair point. Fine."

* * *

Bucky took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror one last time before facing his fate. The producers had asked them to wear their military uniforms, which Bucky hadn't worn in over a year. He left his hair down, which looked ridiculous with the uniform. But it helped him remember that this was just for pretend. He wasn't really back in the Army.

"It's time," a production assistant said. "Just walk through the door and stop on the tape X. Don't look directly into the camera, just look at Tyra."

"Sure."

Bucky followed instructions and found himself standing in front of Tyra and the Js. They looked like they did on TV. It was unsettling, like seeing your kindergarten teacher outside of school.

Tyra smiled. "Sgt. Barnes, first of all, I just want to thank you for your service."

Bucky never knew what to say in response to that. _You're welcome? No problem? I didn't do it for you?_ He settled for a stiff nod.

She laughed. "At ease, sergeant. You can talk."

He nodded again. 

"So. This season of Top Model is very special. We're highlighting the hotties of our armed forces. We know that you may not have considered a career in modeling before, but we want to offer you all some training that you can carry with you in civilian life."

Bucky nodded and reminded himself to talk. "Yes. Thank you."

"So, in your audition video, you said you hoped you could inspire other amputees and disabled veterans."

"Oh yeah, I did say that, didn't I?"

Tyra laughed. "You did, and it was very moving. So tell me, how has your transition to civilian life been?"

"Pretty shitty. Wait, can I swear?"

"It's fine, we'll bleep you if we need to."

"Okay. Yeah, it's been shitty," Bucky said. "I can't hold down a job. I got phantom limb pains. All my friends are dead."

Tyra nodded gravely. "And you think going on America's Next Top Model can help you change that?"

Bucky thought for a long moment, and decided that he'd already met the terms of his bet with Nat. "Honestly? Not really."

"Well, I appreciate the honesty."

"Sorry for wasting your time. I, uh, I lost a bet with my roommate and she made me enter. I didn't really think I'd get this far."

"Well, you won't get much farther without putting conditioner in that hair, girl," Miss J said.

Self-consciously, Bucky touched his hair. He'd washed it before coming. Wasn't that enough?

"Okay, could you change into your swimsuit and come back?" Tyra asked.

"What? You--I still have to do that part?" Bucky had assumed his confession would result in his immediate dismissal.

"Absolutely, we wanna see them abs."

"Oh. Uh...okay." 

"Just head back to the green room you came from and come back out as soon as you're changed."

Bucky was happy to shuck off the uniform, but less than thrilled about stepping back out in nothing but his black board shorts. He reminded himself that if he murdered Natasha, it would be extremely difficult to find another roommate willing to put up with him. After a moment's hesitation, he removed his prosthetic arm before returning to the judges' table.

"Wow, fully au naturel," Tyra said. "Thank you for your bravery."

Bucky shrugged. "I wouldn't wear the arm swimming, so." Also, he suspected that seeing the stump where his arm used to be would cement their decision to keep him off the show.

"I like your walk," Miss J observed. 

"Your eyes are so intense! You look like you're about to jump over the table and murder us," Mr. J said.

"I--I'm not," Bucky stammered. "I wouldn't."

"Sorry, figure of speech," Mr. J said. "And it was a compliment."

"Oh. Right."

Tyra smiled. "Okay, Sgt. Barnes, thank you for your time. Is there anything else you'd like to share with us?"

Bucky shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"You can head back to the green room and a PA will go over next steps with you."

Bucky nodded and walked back, relieved that this stupid endeavor was over. At least he'd get a good story from the experience--if he ever went out again, he was sure someone would buy him a drink to hear about the time he auditioned for America's Next Top Model and Jay Manuel told him he looked like a murderer, but in a good way.


	3. Enlistment

Bucky crossed his good arm over his chest and glared at Natasha across the lounge. She sipped her drink and pointedly turned away from him, chatting with the slender brunette next to her. The producers had insisted that they all wear their military uniforms to this party, which Bucky had resented on a personal level. But it was kind of useful; he could immediately identify that Nat's new friend was an Air Force vet, though he wasn't close enough to tell specifics.

He took a flute of champagne and retreated to a corner with it, keeping his back to the wall as he watched his fellow competitors mingle. He couldn't believe that ANTM had actually gone through with the all-veteran gimmick. He couldn’t believe that he and Natasha had both been cast. And he couldn’t believe that Nat had ditched him when it came time to pick roommates in the fancy house in DC that the wannabe-models would share during filming. Bucky was stuck sharing a room with Sam Wilson, an Air Force vet who seemed nice enough but way too happy to be there. He saw Sam happily chatting with another Air Force vet, some goofy-looking white guy whose patch identified him as Quill.

The point of the welcome party was ostensibly to meet his fellow competitors in a friendly setting, but Bucky had seen enough episodes of the show to know that the producers would love it if a fight broke out. Bucky had no plans to give them what they wanted. He was already having enough trouble adjusting to civilian life; he absolutely did not need to be known as "the guy who punched someone in the face on America's Next Top Model."

A man who was handsome in spite of the burn scars on one side of his face approached Bucky. He stuck out a hand and said, "Hey, I’m Brock Rumlow." From his uniform, Bucky could tell that Rumlow was an Army MP.

Bucky politely shook his hand and said, "James Buchanan."

"James, huh? You’re alright. Get it? All right?" He reached out to tap Bucky’s prosthetic left hand with a smirk.

"Hilarious. I’ve never heard that before," Bucky said drily. He actually wasn’t sure he _had_ heard it--he usually gave off too much of a "don’t fuck with me" vibe for people to comment on his prosthetics. He also didn’t usually go to parties. 

The joke itself wouldn't have bothered him from a friend, but Brock's smirk seemed cruel. He suspected Brock had meant to rattle him, but Bucky could deal with bullies. Without punching them in the face. Probably.

A young production assistant tapped Bucky on the shoulder. Bucky flinched, and the PA said, "Sorry to startle you, Sgt. Barnes, but they're ready for you in the confessional booth."

"Gotta go. Nice talking with you, Brent," Bucky said. He finished the rest of his champagne in one swallow and handed the empty flute to Brock before turning to the PA.

"You know, half the contestants on this dumb show probably have PTSD, you should think about that before you just go around sneaking up on people," Bucky growled.

"Um, you're right, so sorry about that, Sgt. Barnes. But if you could come with me please?"

Bucky sighed and sent up a quick silent prayer to be the first one sent home. He followed the PA to a small room, where he sat on a chair that made him feel like he was about to face an enemy interrogation. Then he looked up and saw who his interrogator was to be.

" _Steve_?" he asked. He’d only had one glass of champagne, surely he wasn’t hallucinating. But what on earth was scrappy little Steve Rogers doing on the set of America’s Next Top Model?

"Hey, Bucky," his childhood friend said with a shy smile.

"What are you--what are you doing here?"

"I, um, am actually one of the producers of this cycle of America's Next Top Model."

"Seriously?"

"Look, we don't have much time, I've got to get one of these with every contestant tonight."

"I thought you were in art school." Steve had sent Bucky letters and care packages throughout his deployment, keeping him updated on his progress in school. Bucky had lived for those letters, but after his injury, Bucky had stopped responding. He'd stopped responding to everyone.

"Art school doesn't pay for itself. My documentary film professor hooked me up with this job, I took a semester off and I should be able to save up enough to keep me going for awhile, plus get some good work experience." Steve's smile dimmed. "But enough about me. So, uh, Bucky--"

"God, please don't call me Bucky on television, I'm trying to go by James."

"James! Fame has changed you already."

Bucky shrugged uncomfortably. It didn't look like Steve had changed much; although he looked healthier than Bucky remembered, he was still the delicate blond boy he'd been in high school, with the same wicked grin as he teased Bucky. 

"Oh, Bucky, don't worry. I'm on your side here. None of the stuff I say will make it on the show. My job is just to ask you questions and then we'll edit your answers into something usable. So try to repeat my question as part of your answer. Okay?"

Bucky sighed. "Okay."

"So, what are your first impressions of the other competitors?"

"Um, my first impressions are that everyone seems really, uh, good-looking."

"Groundbreaking observation, Bucky. Who do you think your biggest competition is?"

"Honestly, everyone here deserves to win more than I do."

"Jesus Christ, Bucky, I can't use that. Try again."

"My roommate from home, Natasha, is on this season--"

"--it's called a 'cycle,' Bucky, not a 'season.’"

Bucky took a deep breath. "My roommate from home, Natasha, is also appearing on this cycle, and she's my biggest competition. She's beautiful, and ruthless. And if I can't win, I'd want her to win."

"What exactly is your relationship with Natasha? Uh, our viewers will want to know."

"Nat and I are roommates. And friends."

"So you're not dating?"

"Nat and I are both single."

"Our viewers will be happy to hear that," Steve mused. Bucky rolled his eyes and Steve laughed. "Okay, okay. What are you most nervous about?"

Bucky looked down for a moment. But he remembered his resolve to represent himself honestly and said, "I, uh, I have PTSD and--"

Steve cleared his throat and said, "Bucky, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for what you've been through, and I'm sorry to have to ask...could you start again? And don't look at the floor, look at me, okay? Just look right at me. I think your story is important. I think it could help people to hear it. Just take a deep breath and start over."

Bucky sighed. He took a deep breath, looked at Steve, and said, "My biggest worry about being on the show is that I have PTSD, and sometimes I get flashbacks and panic attacks. And I don't want...I don't want that to get in the way."

"Does it get in the way of your daily life?"

Bucky nodded. Behind him, the PA cleared his throat. Steve looked down and said, with an apologetic smile, "Oh, sorry, Bucky, we're out of time."

"Oh well," Bucky said drily. "Guess everyone will have to hear about my personal trauma next week."

"But if you want to catch up off camera, I can find you later? If that's okay with you." 

"Yeah, of course. Not like I have much else going on."

"Guess not. Good luck, Bucky."

"Thanks, Steve."

"Oh, and between you and me, watch out for Rumlow. That guy’s a dick."

"Copy that."

The PA led Bucky back to the stupid fake party and reminded him to mingle. Bucky glowered at the cameras on the edges of the room and anxiously sipped another glass of champagne as he took his time studying the food on the table.

A blonde woman in a Navy uniform sidled up next to him and said, "Hey, sorry, I already ate all the good cheese. I'm Sharon."

"I'm James. And I'm not too picky." Bucky stabbed one of the remaining cheese cubes with a toothpick and took a thoughtful bite. "Okay, you're right, this isn't great." He took another cheese cube anyway, and chased it with more champagne.

"So which one of those idiots do you think is going home first?" she asked, nodding her head toward a scene across the table. One of the other contestants--another Green Beret, like Nat--was throwing grapes into the mouth of an Air Force vet who was nimbly catching them despite the forearm crutches he was leaning on. 

Worriedly, a PA said, "Please be careful, Col. Rhodes."

"He's got nothing to worry about," the man throwing the grapes said. "I'm an excellent marksman."

"No, yeah, I'm sure you are, Sgt. Barton, it's just, you know, insurance…"

Barton rolled his eyes and threw a grape straight up at the ceiling. He caught it out of the air on a toothpick and popped it in his mouth. "Well, I'd hate to worry your insurance company."

Bucky laughed appreciatively. To Sharon, he said, "I don't know, I think they'll both probably outlast me."

"What? Why do you say that? You look like a natural-born smizer."

"I don't know about that." Bucky took a tiny cookie off the table and asked, "So, uh, what's your story?"

"Retired Naval Intelligence officer. Hoping to make some easier money."

"I'm sure you'll be able to do that."

"What about you?"

"Infantry. Honorably discharged, for obvious reasons." Bucky waved his prosthetic hand.

"Tough luck," Sharon said sympathetically. "Why'd you audition for the show?"

"Lost a bet with my roommate. She made me apply. Joke's on her, though, because I convinced her to apply in solidarity and now she's here too."

"Who's your roommate?"

"Natasha," Bucky said, nodding in her direction.

"Ahh. So what you're telling me is, you two both play dirty and I should watch out for you in the competition?"

Bucky laughed. "Something like that." Then he lowered his voice and said, "I think you probably should watch out for that guy Brock, though, he seems like kind of a dick."

Sharon whispered back, "Ugh, he's definitely a dick, I hope he goes home first. Him or Frank Castle."

"Which one's that?"

Sharon delicately tilted her head toward an extremely jacked looking guy in a Marines uniform, standing alone in the corner with a glass of wine and a scowl.

Frank looked over at them and asked, "Are you guys talking about me?" 

"Nope, just doing neck circles," Sharon said, stretching her neck back the other way. "Gotta stay limber."

Frank glowered at them both and somehow managed to sip cabernet in a menacing way. 

Bucky whispered, "Yikes. I was afraid I was going to be the least likable person this season. I mean cycle."

Sharon laughed. "You're probably not even in the bottom half."

Frank continued staring at them, and Sharon grabbed Bucky's right hand and said loudly, "Oh, come with me, I want to introduce you to my roommate. My TV roommate, that is." She dragged him across the room and said, "I just wanted to get away from Frank. But since we're over here, James, this is Hope. Hope, James."

"Were you guys talking to Frank? That guy makes me nervous."

"We were trying not to!" Sharon said.

Hope rolled her eyes and extended her hand to Bucky. "Well, you seem like a better person to talk to than Brock Rumlow, anyway. I'm Hope Pym, former Army Corps of Engineers."

"James Barnes, Army infantry. And thank you, I'm flattered."

"It's a low bar."

"I know."

"Be nice, Hope, I already told James he was in the top half of likeable contestants."

Hope nodded and said, "That's fair. Probably true, even. Hey, is there any more of the good cheese left over there?"

"Sorry, James ate it all," Sharon said breezily. "I tried to save some for you, but he just wouldn't listen."

Bucky gave her an affronted look.

"You're a liar, Sharon Carter," Hope declared. Bucky laughed. Maybe being on this show wouldn't be so horrible. Especially since he was pretty sure he'd be the first to go home.

* * *

After the welcome party wound down, PAs collected all of the competitors' body mics for the night. Bucky found himself happily alone in his shared bedroom, since Sam had decided to hit the gym before bed. He took off his prosthetic and was considering taking an Ambien. He shouldn't combine it with the champagne he'd drunk, but he really just wanted to go the fuck to sleep. But there was a single knock on the door before he could dig the pills out of his bag.

Bucky opened the door and smiled when he saw Steve. "Hey. You wanna come in?"

"Yeah, and shut the door, I'm not allowed to fraternize with contestants."

"Is that what this is? Fraternizing?" But Bucky pulled the door closed after Steve. He sat down on his twin bed and patted a spot next to him. The bedroom was small and didn't have any other furniture besides Sam's bed, which Bucky wasn't sure if he should offer. Still, he was endlessly grateful that this house didn't have any of the absurd sleeping arrangements he'd seen on other seasons--cycles--of ANTM. Two twin beds in one small room was annoying, but doable.

"How've you been, Steve? You look good."

Steve ran a hand through his hair sheepishly. "Yeah, I, uh, I started this experimental new asthma treatment and it's been really helping. I can go jogging now! Not that far or anything, but still."

"That's great," Bucky said, and meant it. When they were kids, Steve had always looked like a stiff breeze might blow him over. Now, he was still small, but he seemed slightly more sturdy. His delicate face had a healthy glow. "It’s really great to see you."

"I couldn't believe it when I saw your audition video."

"You, uh, you saw that?"

"Yeah, I had to cut together footage from it...I saw everybody's auditions."

"Oh, god," Bucky said. He rubbed his face with his hand. He looked away from Steve, and his gaze fell on one of the room's large framed photos of Tyra Banks in military-inspired fashions.

Steve took a deep breath and said, "Look, I--I want to apologize."

"Aw, it's okay, I get that you're just doing your job."

"No--not for this. For--I hated that we lost touch. I tried sending you letters but the hospital returned them to sender. And your old phone number was disconnected, and I couldn't find you online…I figured I would have heard something if you...died, so I must have done something to offend you...in that last letter I sent? But I couldn't even get ahold of you to apologize."

Bucky blinked. He looked away from Tyra and back at Steve. "Oh, Steve, no, you--no, you didn't do anything wrong. I loved all of your letters, with the drawings and everything, and god, those care packages you sent were incredible…" 

"Oh," Steve said with furrowed eyebrows. "Even...okay, but then, Bucky, where the hell have you been?"

"Just....around."

"I mean, you said you're back living in Brooklyn? I still live in Brooklyn, we could have...I could have visited. I would have visited."

Bucky looked down at the stump of his left arm.

"Bucky?" Steve prompted him after the silence dragged on.

"Sorry, Steve, it's just been...really hard. I mean, when I was in the hospital everything was just a haze of painkillers, and then after I got out...it was just so much to adjust to. I lost track of a lot of stuff."

"But we were best friends, Bucky," Steve said. His voice sounded raw, and Bucky finally realized how hurt Steve was by Bucky's absence. Of course he had missed Steve, but he’d kind of thought Steve would forget about him and move on; everyone else had. People loved a hero until his disfigured body and twitchy demeanor made them too uncomfortable; it was easier to support veterans in sound bites and meaningless Hallmark cards than it was to sit with them while they had panic attacks on the subway.

"Aw, hell, Steve, we still are, I just...I dunno, I thought it would be better...for you...if I kept to myself."

"Well, I think that's stupid. I made my feelings pretty clear. That there was nothing you could do that would...change my feelings."

"Steve…"

"C'mon, when we were kids, how many times did you come visit me in the hospital? And you wouldn't let me repay the favor? You completely froze me out."

"Look, I've been in a really bad place. Well, I thought I was in a really bad place, and then I came here and realized things can always get worse."

Steve snorted and said, "Just wait until you see what tomorrow's challenge is," with a smile that made Bucky regret all of his life decisions.

"Oh, god." Bucky had somehow managed to avoid thinking about the actual mechanics of the show he was on. "Oh well, I'm sure it'll be my last."

Steve's face fell. "Do you really want to get sent home? I can trade with another producer if you don't want to talk to me."

"No! No, please do not make me talk to a different person. No, it's not because of you...I'm glad to see you, Steve, really, it's just...I didn't want to be here in the first place. I just lost a bet with my roommate and she made me enter."

"But the stuff you said in your audition video…"

"...was a bunch of bullshit."

Steve shook his head. "I dunno, Bucky, I think you made a good point. I mean, heaven knows, this is a ridiculous show, but I do think there could be some power in showing your scars. In showing how brave you really are. I think it could help people."

Bucky sighed. He'd forgotten how earnest Steve could be, when he wasn't being a little shit. "Yeah, maybe. But c'mon, you know I'm not really cut out to be a model."

"Why not? You used to model for me, remember?"

"Oh yeah, for your life drawing class. But that was easy, I just had to stand there. You had the hard part."

"Don't sell yourself short. You did a fantastic job of just standing there," Steve said with a smile.

"Thanks. It's good to be recognized for my achievements," Bucky said drily.

Steve laughed. After a pause, he said, "Look, Bucky, I...I'm so sorry for everything you went through in Afghanistan. You know I would have been over there with you, if I could have been." 

Bucky nodded, remembering how disappointed Steve had been when he hadn't gotten medical clearance to enlist after high school. "Honestly, I still think those physical pre-requisites were bullshit. You're tougher than half the people I served with. It's just too bad our packs weighed more than you do."

"Maybe I could have gotten one of those roller suitcases," Steve mused.

"Oh, yeah, you should have asked about that." Bucky grinned briefly. "But for real, Steve, I'm glad you didn't. It wasn't...it wasn't what I thought it would be. I guess...I guess that's partly why I didn't want to see you. I've been...I guess I've been ashamed of the things I did."

"Aw, Bucky." Steve wrapped his skinny arms around Bucky in a surprisingly tight hug. "I know you. I'm sure you didn't do anything to be ashamed of. I'm just so glad to see you again."

"Yeah. You, too."

Steve glanced at his watch and said, "I should go. You'll need sleep for tomorrow. And drink some water--these shows keep the alcohol flowing, because drunk competitors make for better television."

"Oh. That makes sense." Bucky was pretty sure the alcohol had loosened his tongue already, and he was thankful he wasn't being recorded. "It's good stuff, though. Better than what I buy at home."

"That's true. Tyra wouldn't allow PBR on her show."

Bucky laughed. "Hey, I don't think I've had PBR since I was 17."

"Remember that night when we snuck in to that club with $4 pitchers to see that _terrible_ band?"

"You are going to have to be more specific."

Steve grinned. "I really missed you, Bucky." He pulled a bottle of water out of his messenger bag and handed it to him. "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early."

"Night, Steve."

Bucky chugged the water and laid down. He took a moment to marvel at the unexpected happiness of being reunited with Steve. Reassured that the years hadn’t changed Steve’s fundamental goodness, Bucky drifted off to an unusually peaceful sleep before Sam returned to their shared room.


	4. Reveille

Bucky felt like he'd just closed his eyes when he was awakened by the obnoxious sound of a trumpet playing reveille. He sat up in bed and said, "What the fuck?"

Across the room from him, Sam was laughing. "I guess we're doing this, huh?"

The camera operator seemed disappointed that Bucky and Sam hadn't had a stronger reaction. But Bucky was used to getting by on little sleep, and the tinny trumpet sound hadn’t been triggering for him, just annoying. A PA told them they had 5 minutes to get dressed and downstairs and if they were a _second_ late, they'd be left behind. Bucky shrugged and pulled on jeans and a black muscle tank. Five minutes wasn't enough time to attach his prosthetic arm, so he didn't. If his stump was enough to get him sent home today, all the better.

Downstairs, they were mic-ed and rounded up into the house living room, where they received their first Tyra Mail. Sam opened what looked like an oversized telegram and read, "Rise and shine, recruits! Hope you're all ready to serve as my rear admirals. Tyra."

Sam put down the envelope and sighed. "Well, that doesn't even make sense, but okay."

Bucky glanced at Nat and shrugged. They'd both watched enough ANTM to understand that Tyra's weird pun probably meant they were showing their asses on camera today. The thought didn't especially bother Bucky. He knew his ass was in better shape than a lot of the rest of his body.

After Sam read the Tyra Mail message, they filmed a few minutes of reactions and then PAs hustled them into a charter bus. Bucky ended up sitting next to Brock, who he'd briefly met last night and taken an immediate dislike to.

"Where do you think we're going?" he asked.

"I don't give a shit," Bucky replied. He turned away from Brock and stared out the window.

"I've heard about you, Barnes."

"Yeah, I'm on TV."

"No, no, I've heard about you before. I heard about your squad in Afghanistan. You guys were _crazy_."

"Well, I haven't heard of you at all," Bucky drawled.

"It must be hard for you, being the only survivor and all," Brock said, his voice laced with syrupy fake concern. Bucky forced himself to take a deep, slow breath.

From the row ahead of them, Nat turned around and said, "Christ, Rumlow, we haven't even had any coffee yet, can you shut your mouth?"

"Anything for you, gorgeous. Maybe later I can show you what else I can do with my mouth?"

Nat fixed him with a perfectly poisonous glare and said, "Looks like you've got a decent set of teeth in that mouth. You could stand to lose a few of them."

Fortunately for Rumlow, unfortunately for the eventual television audience, the van pulled into a parking lot before that conversation could escalate further. The young veterans were shepherded into the lobby of a nondescript building, where Tyra, dressed in hot pink camouflage, saluted them. "Good morning, grunts! Is everyone feeling ready for their first photoshoot?"

The crowd mumbled something, and she mock-pouted. "Is that how you answer your commanding officer?"

"Ma'am, no, ma'am," the competitors responded.

Tyra smiled. "That's better! Let’s try this again. Y’all ready for your first photoshoot?"

"Ma’am, yes ma’m!" They chorused. Bucky felt like a real asshole. 

"Happy to hear it. Now, for your first photoshoot, we want to see you. All of you. Well, almost all." She gestures toward a long table behind her, which was scattered with articles of clothing and equipment. "When I say ‘go,’ you can each pick one item off this table. You’ll pose with that...and nothing else. Any questions?"

"Ma’am, no ma’am."

"Then, let’s...go!" She stepped out of the way and gestured at the table. Bucky hung back, unwilling to get trampled. He saw his competitors walk away with stuff like uniform hats, combat boots, and unit flags. Bucky snagged a gas mask.

When a PA called him out to the set, he walked out fully nude, wearing the gas mask on his face. 

Jay laughed. "James, you gotta take that off."

"It’s my item," Bucky said, through the mask.

"The idea is, you should pose with it. Uh...hold it over your nether regions. Although I applaud your body confidence, we need to see your face."

"Gas mask won’t do much good for my dick." But Bucky took his mask off, rolling his eyes. He held the mask over his crotch and didn’t bother to disguise how dumb he thought this was.

Jay snapped a few pictures and said, "You know, this contempt is actually working. Try a new pose?"

Bucky sighed. He sat on the floor and slouched back, holding the mask over his lap.

"You look like you want to murder me, and I would let you," Jay cooed.

"Is that next week’s challenge?"

Jay laughed and took a few more shots. "Okay, James, that was your last frame. Thank you, you can go get dressed."

"What should I do with the gas mask?"

"Give it to a PA in the green room."

Bucky nodded and returned to the green room, where he pulled his clothes back on and was swept into a confessional interview with Steve.

"Bucky, how did you feel about posing nude?" 

Bucky shrugged. "It’s not a big deal. In the Army you get pretty used to going without privacy."

"Remember to use my question in your answer. Why did you choose to pose without your prosthetic arm?"

"Oh, I didn't put on my prosthetic arm because I didn’t have time to put it on this morning."

"What?"

"They said we only had 5 minutes to get ready. It takes more than 5 minutes to strap on the arm, so I went without it," Bucky said matter-of-factly.

"What the hell? That’s not right. I’m going to talk to Tyra about this. You should be allowed more time."

"It’s not a big deal. I don’t always wear it."

"Still. I’m sure it’s just an oversight."

"I don’t want any special treatment."

"This isn’t special treatment! It’s just equal accommodations." Steve was getting an angry flush in his cheeks. Bucky liked seeing it, even if he was pretty sure it meant trouble for someone.

"I really don’t care. I’m not planning on sticking around for that long."

"Well, if not for you, what about for the next disabled competitor who comes along? Someone who maybe actually wants to win the competition they entered?"

Bucky shrugged. He wasn't sure how likely it was that ANTM would have another amputee competitor after this armed forces gimmick was over.

Steve continued, "Remember how mad you got when Ms. Andrews wouldn’t give me an extension on my history exam, when I was recovering from surgery, sophomore year? And you threw such a fit that they changed the school policy?"

Bucky considered the passionate look in Steve’s blue eyes and said, "Okay, yeah, sure. I guess."

Steve smiled. "Good. I’ll follow up with you on that later. Oh, shit, that’s most of your time. Um, anything else you want to say?"

Bucky looked right at the camera and deadpanned, "I just want all the viewers at home to be aware that gas masks are actually only effective if you wear them over your face. There are no health benefits to wearing a gas mask over your dick. That’s a public service announcement."

Steve laughed. "Thanks, Bucky, that’s very informative."

* * *

Bucky felt unexpectedly nervous as he waited for his name to be called at panel. He’d wanted to go home, hadn’t he? And yet when he found himself standing in the bottom 2 next to Brock Rumlow, he suddenly realized that he wanted to stay. Or at least, that he didn’t want to lose to Brock Rumlow.

Tyra displayed Bucky’s nude photo on the screen and said, "James, this is actually an excellent photo. It exudes attitude, and I think you’re so brave to pose without your prosthetic. It gives your photo an extra edge. But I heard that you weren’t taking the shoot seriously. Do you actually want to be here?"

Bucky licked his lips. "I...I think I do, actually. I wasn’t sure at first, to be honest. But I’d like to have another chance."

Tyra looked grave. "And why should I give you that chance?"

Bucky hesitated. "I don’t know."

"In your audition tape, you said you wanted to be an advocate for other amputees, is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now, a little birdie told me that the real reason you posed without your prosthetic is that we didn’t allow you enough time to put it on. Is that true?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?"

"I didn’t want to make excuses for myself. Besides, it was supposed to be a nude photo, right?"

Tyra smiled briefly but her expression quickly turned grave. "James, I apologize for not accommodating your needs, and I appreciate you not wanting to make excuses. But if you want to advocate for others, you have to learn how to advocate for yourself, too. I hope you'll be able to do that in the next challenge." She held up his photo and said, "Congratulations, you’re still in the running toward becoming America’s Next Top Model."

"Thank you," Bucky said. He walked up and took it from her. His mind was racing and it was hard for him to focus on Tyra’s dismissal of Brock, but he wanted to hear it. 

"Brock, unfortunately that means you are no longer in the running toward becoming America’s Next Top Model. I’ve already heard a lot of negative feedback about how you treat the creative team as well as your fellow models. Ultimately, a person can be beautiful no matter how many scars they have on the outside, but when someone is mean and ugly on the inside, that shows on the outside. And especially when you’re starting out in the business, you have to be humble. But thank you for your service, and I wish you well on your transition back to civilian life."

Bucky was stunned. He would have thought Rumlow would be kept around for at least a few episodes, but Tyra must have figured there would be enough other potential for drama among the remaining candidates without keeping that asshole here. Or maybe she just hadn’t liked Rumlow’s face. Either way, Bucky couldn't complain about the outcome. 

He didn't have much time to think before he was swept away to talk to Steve for a post-elimination confessional. Steve beamed at him.

"Congrats, Buck!"

"Yeah, I guess you’re stuck with me for another week."

"I’m thrilled for you. And it’s just an added bonus that I never have to talk to Brock Rumlow ever again. But, hey, enough about me, let's talk about you. Remember to incorporate my question into your answer, and tell me how you feel about being safe this week."

"I’m grateful that Tyra and the judges gave me another chance," Bucky said truthfully. "I wasn’t sure I belonged on this competition but now I feel like I’d like to stick around for awhile."

Steve smiled. "I’m glad to hear it. Now, you told Tyra that you wanted to be an advocate for other amputees. Could you say more about that?"

"Uh...just...it’s something that takes a lot of adjusting to. When I first got my prosthetic arm, I hated it, I thought it was ugly and clunky and I didn’t want anyone to see me with it. Plus it was just painful and awkward to wear. But...I’m getting used to it, and to the things I can do with it."

"Including become America’s Next Top Model?"

"Uh, yeah, maybe including becoming America’s Next Top Model, who knows?"

Steve smiled at him. "Well, you’ve got my vote, for what it’s worth."

"I’ll take it."

* * *

Bucky's brain wouldn't let him celebrate his victory for long, though. The night of Brock's elimination, Bucky woke up screaming. His roommate Sam turned on the light, stood at the foot of Bucky's bed and said, reassuringly, "Hey, it's okay. Do you know where you are? You're in a safe place."

Bucky caught his breath and nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"You sure? There aren't any cameras here, just you and me."

"I'm fine."

"It's just hard to feel settled sleeping in a new place, right? You're feeling hyper-vigilant?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"It's hard. Our brains are just trying to protect us but they get confused. Start thinking everything's a threat, when it's not."

"I guess I haven't thought about it that way."

"I run a PTSD support group down at my local VA. You ever go to anything like that?"

"Ah, shoulda known you were trying to sell me on something."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, I’m pushing free mental health resources. Just tryin' to help, man."

"Sorry. I'm just not...much of a joiner, I guess."

"You enlisted, though, right?"

"I guess I did. But I didn't really think of it as joining a group."

"What'd you think of it as?" Sam asked. His tone was genuinely curious, not mocking.

"I guess...this sounds cheesy, but I just wanted to protect people. Help people. After 9/11, I thought...but it wasn't what I thought," Bucky spit out, aware that he hadn't quite articulated his point.

"I feel you," Sam said easily. 

"What about you?"

"Yeah, I wanted to protect people too, but...I wanted to _fly_."

"So why'd you stop?"

"I...lost my wingman. And after that, it just didn't feel the same anymore. I finished out my enlistment and...stayed on the ground. I flew to Vegas for a buddy's bachelor party and had a panic attack on the plane. Flying commercial, I couldn't handle it." Sam shook his head. "I take Xanax when I fly now."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. So what do you usually do when you can't sleep?"

"Uh, actually, my roommate and I usually watch trashy reality TV. Like, uh, this show," Bucky admitted. "What about you?"

"That's one way to handle it, I guess! For me, it depends. If it's really bad I get up and go for a run or something. Or I use this meditation app sometimes. I--oh, shit, I keep forgetting we don't have our phones. Well, I can talk you through it if you want?"

"No, thanks."

Sam ignored him and said, "The secret is mostly just to count your breaths. Breathe in for 4, hold for 7, exhale for 8. Try it with me. Breathe in..."

Bucky followed along with Sam's count; it seemed too awkward _not_ to at this point. Sam led him through 4 rounds of it.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Actually. Thanks."

"No problem. Check out that app when you get a chance, though. It's got some more guided meditations and stuff. But the basics is just counting."

"Oh. Thanks. Maybe I'll look it up when I get home. Which I have a feeling is gonna be soon."

"Hey, don't count yourself out. By the way, I forgot to tell you earlier--I'm _so_ glad that asshole Brock went home instead of you."

"Me too. I don't think I would have minded going home to somebody else, but when I realized it was me or him…"

"Yeah. Just as long as you know, when it comes down between me and you...it's gonna be me," Sam said playfully.

"I can't argue with that."

"Aw, it's no fun if you give up like that! You've got some fight in you, James. I know it."

"Bucky."

"What?"

"My friends call me Bucky."

"That's real weird, Bucky."

"My middle name is Buchanan, so."

"Oof. Well, good night, Bucky. Okay if I turn the light back off?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Sam."

"For the record, my friends call me Sam. You know, like a normal person."

"Fuck off, Sam."

Sam laughed, and Bucky fell back to sleep with a smile on his face.


	5. Grooming Standards

Bucky had seen enough episodes of America's Next Top Model to know that a makeover was coming soon. He wondered if they'd cut his hair, and decided it wouldn't bother him if they did. He and Nat always complained about how the makeovers for male models were more boring than the ones for the women. His chin-length hair provided potential for more drama than Sam's hair, which was already about as short as it could get.

When it was his turn in the salon chair, Tyra grabbed a chunk of Bucky's hair and purred, "James, why did you decide to grow out your hair?"

"I didn't really decide, I just...didn't get it cut." Since getting out of the hospital, he only left his house when he absolutely had to, and a visit to the barbershop definitely did not make his list of priorities.

She laughed. "Well, that checks out with what I'm seeing. You've got a lot of split ends. Your hair just doesn't look well cared-for."

"It's not."

"James, you need to take pride in your appearance. Isn't that something they teach you in the Army?"

"When you're in uniform, the way you look and act reflects the uniform. But I'm not in uniform anymore."

"Hmm, well, that may be true, but taking care of yourself is still important. And I think you need a reboot. Don't worry, we're not gonna give you a full new recruit buzzcut, but we're going to take a lot of it off. And we're going to thread your brows. Sound good?"

Bucky shrugged. "Sure."

He suspected that Tyra had wanted a bigger reaction from him, but she smiled and said, "I appreciate your trust in me. I can't wait to see you when it's finished!" She moved on and left Bucky in the hands of a hair stylist, who was thankfully not chatty. He took deep breaths and tried to relax as she touched his head. If he could just relax, it might be enjoyable to have someone wash his hair. 

He heard scissors and felt his head grow lighter, but the stylist wouldn't let him look in the mirror until she was completely finished, including his eyebrows. He'd never had his eyebrows threaded before. It hurt, but it was bearable. 

"Okay, let me see!" Tyra said brightly. "Oh, James, yes, this is so fierce. No more hiding behind that curtain of damaged hair!"

Bucky finally looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was much shorter--that he'd been able to feel--but still on the long-ish side for a guy. It was swept back and artfully tousled, in a way that he didn't think he'd ever be able to replicate on his own. 

"Huh," he said.

"Huh?! Is that all you have to say?" Tyra demanded.

"No, yeah, it's good, thank you," he said, looking at the stylist.

"I can't wait to see more of your eyes in the next photo shoot," Tyra said. "You have _gorgeous_ eyes."

"Thanks."

Tyra gave him one last appraising look before moving on to her next victim, which left Bucky free for the rest of the morning. He scoped out the living room of the communal house, wondering who else was around. He did a double take when he saw Nat, whose red curls had been replaced with a straight, platinum blonde bob.

"Whoa, hey, Nat," he said, freshly-threaded eyebrows raised. 

"Damn, you look good!" she exclaimed.

"You, too."

Nat smiled widely, then reached back to switch off her body mic. She leaned in close to him and whispered, "I hate it but I'm pretty sure Tyra just did it so I'd cry on TV, and I'm not giving her the satisfaction." She flipped her mic back on and said casually, "Yeah, I always wondered what I'd look like as a blonde."

Sam came in and joined them. As far as Bucky could tell, his closely-cropped hair looked exactly the same as it had before. He said, "Whoa, Sam, I almost didn't recognize you."

"Yeah, it's such a dramatic transformation," Nat said. "Incredible."

Sam laughed and stroked his chin. Bucky realized that Sam's facial hair was gone. It wasn't a huge change, but now that he noticed it, Bucky thought it looked good. Sam said, "Yeah, it's hard to improve upon perfection, I guess. Y'all look pretty good, though. I can't believe you had that face under all that hair."

Bucky shrugged in response and Sam said, "Bucky, I swear to god, I can't be giving you motivational pep talks every 12 hours."

Nat raised her eyebrows. "Did he just call you--"

Bucky winced. "Uh, Sam, I forgot to mention, that my friends call me that nickname...but not on television. Please."

"Okay, so you _are_ aware that it's a fuckin' weird nickname for a grown man. Thank god."

"Also, are you giving him pep talks? Because that is going to just raise his roommate expectations of me when this is over and we go home," Nat said, with a worried look on her perfect face.

"I'm not sure I'd survive a pep talk from you."

"Wait, you two are roommates in the real world?"

"No, we're on America's Next Top Model, not the Real World," Nat quipped.

Bucky groaned. Sometimes Nat made such cheesy jokes. Sam eyed them both with increased interest. "Is this going to be some kind of Peeta and Katniss situation?"

"Absolutely not," Nat replied.

"What?" Bucky asked.

" _The Hunger Games_ , man," Sam explained. In response to Bucky's bemused look, Sam added, "Oh dang, you gotta read it."

"You can borrow my copies," Nat said.

"That trilogy has actually been really popular with my PTSD support group. It's got a really good depiction of what it's like, living with PTSD."

"Yeah, it does," Nat agreed thoughtfully.

"I thought those books were for kids."

"Kids get PTSD too," Sam said.

"Also, they're for _young adults_ ," Nat said. Sam high-fived her.

"Okay, okay, I'll add it to my list," Bucky said. "As long as I don't have to come to any book club meetings."

"You can just email me your essay responses for participation points," Sam replied.

Bucky laughed and rolled his eyes, but he thought maybe he wouldn't actually mind keeping in touch with Sam after he went home.

* * *

Bucky had thought that his shorter hair would be easier to deal with, but it turned out that having model-worthy hair was a lot of work. His stylist had patiently explained that he was expected to use shampoo _and_ conditioner _and_ something called pomade. It was exhausting.

At least after the first, intentionally-rushed challenge, they'd been given plenty of time to get ready for the next challenge. Not that Bucky knew what to do with the extra time besides affix his prosthetic, attempt to put the pomade in his hair, and wait for his turn to be attacked by Darcy, his makeup artist. 

Darcy chatted amiably while she put foundation on his face. He mostly tuned out.

"You're like the strong, silent type, huh?"

"Sorry, just spacing out."

"Gotta get your head in the game, man. Okay, close your eyes." He tried not to flinch as she applied eyeliner and mascara to him. Then she cleared her throat and offered him a mirror. "Sorry, what do you think? Is this too much? I don't know if you can tell, I'm kinda new at this."

"Uh...I dunno. It's definitely more than I usually wear."

"How much do you usually wear?"

"Uh, none."

"Oh, right. Yeah, this is too much, I'm gonna take it off and try again." Darcy pursed her lips and approached him with a cotton ball. 

Bucky held up a hand and said, "No, wait, leave it."

"You sure? We have time to start over."

"Yeah, it's cool." Bucky also wasn't sure he could handle her poking around his eyes again. 

"Okay. Well...thank you for not yelling at me."

"Did someone yell at you?"

Darcy glanced at the camera and shook her head. "Nevermind."

"Was it that guy Frank?"

She shrugged and nodded.

"Yeah, that guy seems a little unhinged."

"Like, it's not my fault that his 5 o'clock shadow is hard to work with."

"Uh, right." Bucky touched his face self-consciously, thankful that he'd remembered to shave.

"Anyway, you look great. You're gonna crush it."

"Thanks, Darcy."

A PA led Bucky to his photoshoot. Each model was posing with a different DC monument. Bucky was assigned the World War II monument, which consisted of pillars around a fountain.

He leaned against a pillar and tried to smize. The photographer coaxed him into a few different poses, and then said, "What about getting in the fountain?"

"Uh...that seems kind of...disrespectful? There’s a sign saying to stay out of the fountain." Bucky wasn’t normally a stickler for rules, but this request rubbed him the wrong way.

"Hmm," the photographer said. "I see your point."

"Also I don't think this eye makeup is waterproof."

"No, the makeup should be fine. But you're probably right about the disrespect. Which is why you should do it."

"What?"

"Nothing boosts ratings like a good controversy."

"Uh…what if I just sit right on the edge?"

The photographer rolled his eyes but took a few obliging snaps. "Okay, this is your last shot...sure you don't want to get in the fountain?"

"Yeah, I'm good out here."

"Okay. Well, thanks, James." The photographer seemed bored as he dismissed Bucky, which seemed to bode poorly for Bucky's photos.

Bucky shrugged it off and found Nat lounging alone by the pool back at the model house. "Hey, Nat. How was your shoot?"

"Fine, I guess. I had to pose in front of a piece of the Berlin Wall, which was kind of weird. Hey, will you put sunscreen on my back?"

"Sure." Bucky did, taking extra care with her scar tissue, which he knew from experience was particularly sensitive to sun.

"Thanks. Anyway, how was your shoot?"

"Uh...I dunno. I got the World War II monument, which was cool, but the photographer wanted me to get in the fountain part of it and I wouldn't do it? But if I get sent home for that, whatever."

"Hmm. They shouldn't have asked you to do that."

"Well, they did, so."

"This show is gross. I mean, I knew that from watching it, but...ugh."

"It's not all bad."

Nat smiled. "Hey, so I've been meaning to ask...that adorable producer? Is that _your_ Steve Rogers?"

"He's not _mine_."

"But you know him, right? He sent you that sweet love letter?"

"He...what?"

"Look, if you're gonna leave shit lying around on the kitchen counter, I'm going to read it, obviously." Nat pursed her lips. "I always wondered who that was from. I searched for him on Facebook but it's kind of a common name. What happened between you guys?"

Bucky shrugged. "I just, well, you know. Haven't really been hanging out with anybody since I got home."

"But why did you two break up?"

"What? We didn't break up. We've never dated."

"So you just stone-cold rejected that love letter?"

" _What love letter are you talking about_?"

"Uhh...a card with a drawing of a bouquet on it? Something about how you coming so close to death made him realize he couldn't live without you? And that he _loved you_?" 

Bucky shook his head. "No, no, that's not a love letter. That's just...everybody was sending me really dramatic shit like that. And Steve's my best friend."

"Um, your best friend who _loves you and can't live without you_?"

Bucky glanced around sharply. Nat said, "Relax, I wouldn't take off my hoodie until the camera guy left me alone, we're fine. I mean, you're very dumb. But you're not being filmed right now."

"Nat…"

"Seriously, he seems like a very sweet, cute, boy. Who loves you. I _know_ you're not worried about getting kicked off the show, so what's the problem?"

"It's...that's not what he meant, Nat, he's just a really nice person. And I'm _not_ a nice person."

"So you two are a perfect fit! Opposites attract," Nat said cheerfully.

Bucky rolled over on his lounge chair, turning his back to her.

"Ugh, Barnes, quit the pity party. You are a good person! You're a good person who's been having a tough time. You need to get over yourself and get with Steve."

"Nat, the last time I listened to you, I ended up on America's Next Top Model."

"See! I'd never steer you wrong. You deserve to be here. And you deserve to be with Steve."

Bucky decided his best course of action was to pretend to fall asleep so he didn't have to explain that the problem was that Steve deserved to be with somebody way better than Bucky. Still, he couldn't be too mad at Nat for dragging him on the show--he was glad for the chance to renew his friendship with Steve. Bucky had definitely missed him.

"If you don't stop pretending to be asleep, I'm going to track down Steve right now for a tell-all confessional."

Bucky rolled over again and channeled one of his favorite ANTM moments. "Nat, I just want to say to you that some people have war in their countries."

She laughed, and Bucky hoped that would be the end of it.

* * *

Unfortunately, Nat's misguided pep talk wasn't enough to keep Bucky from once again standing in the bottom 2. Tyra radiated disappointment as she said, "James. Last week you stood here and told me that you wanted to be here, but I heard you were uncooperative with your makeup artist and your photographer."

Bucky made a frustrated hand gesture. Tyra raised her eyebrows and said, "Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

"The photographer asked me to pose in the fountain of the WWII memorial. I said I felt uncomfortable because that seemed disrespectful of the legacy of WWII veterans. But I posed...near the fountain."

Tyra nodded. "Okay. I can appreciate your sticking to your morals and wanting to respect our WWII vets. But, listen, if your makeup artist tells you she wants to start over, you should let her."

Bucky nodded. Tyra exhaled and then turned to Frank.

"Meanwhile, Frank...I don't have a photo for you at all, because you completely refused to pose."

Frank sputtered, "The Vietnam Memorial is...an important institution. I refuse to desecrate it in any way. Modeling there would make a mockery of it."

"Don't you think you could have used your photo as an opportunity to create awareness for Vietnam veterans?"

Frank crossed his arms and scowled.

"Fashion can have a purpose. As models, we can highlight causes we believe in. But decisions are made by those who show up."

She held out Bucky's photo and said, "James, congratulations, you are still in the running toward becoming America's Next Top Model."

"Thanks," Bucky mumbled.

"Frank, that means, unfortunately, you are no longer in the running toward becoming America's Next Top Model. Please go back to the house and pack your bags."

"This is _bullshit_ ," Frank said. Bucky didn't disagree, but he couldn't complain.

Bucky offered him a handshake as Frank walked by, but Frank looked at him with contempt and kept walking. Bucky shrugged and waited for his turn to talk to Steve.

"Bucky, back in the bottom 2. You really can't wait to get home, huh?"

"I mean...I want to do my best in this competition, but it's not worth compromising my beliefs."

Steve gave Bucky a smile so bright, it could have lit a night shoot. "Could you say more about that?"

"I mean, World War II was...I dunno, I just have the utmost respect for the men and women who fought that war, who gave their lives for freedom. Who fought the ultimate evil. And I...I take Tyra's point about posing there maybe highlighting the cause, their memory...but...I mean, they ask you not to get in the fountain, and it just seemed like that would end up being...too silly."

"I'm really proud of you, Bucky," Steve said.

"Uh, thanks."

"By the way, I personally liked your raccoon eyes look. Do you have anything to say about that?"

Bucky batted his eyes. "I'm so glad you liked it."

Steve actually blushed. "I mean--I meant for the show. Do you want to say anything on the record about your eye makeup...situation."

"Oh. Uh...I guess I should have listened when the makeup artist suggested starting over. I know she was doing her best...I guess I just kind of lost patience. Also, I think I would probably look silly with any amount of eye makeup."

"I--I don't think you looked silly."

"Thanks, Steve."

"Okay, well...thanks, Buck, I think we got some good footage. You can go."

"Thanks." Bucky paused in the doorframe and said, "You wanna...fraternize later? I'm not busy. Well, I guess you probably know my schedule better than I do."

Steve grinned. "I'll pencil myself in."

After they finished shooting for the day, Steve showed up at Bucky's door with a pizza and a sketchbook. "I have an offer for you," he said.

"Is it a one year modeling contract and a lifetime supply of cosmetics?" Bucky asked.

"No...it's a one evening modeling contract and a pizza?" Steve seemed a little shy as he said, "That is, I was wondering if I could draw you? In exchange for some of DC's finest pizza. I'll warn you, it's not as good as New York's finest pizza, but it's better than craft services."

Bucky grinned. "Lucky for you, my rates are very reasonable."

"I'm catching a model on the rise. After this cycle is over, I won't be able to afford you."

Bucky opened the box of pizza and took out a slice of supreme. "Wow, you went all out with toppings."

"I wanted to make sure you're getting all your nutrients."

"Yeah, my diet here has been really deficient in olives."

"I'm looking out for you."

"And I do appreciate that."

Steve took out his sketchpad and settled on the far end of Bucky's twin bed.

"Wait, you're drawing me _now_?" Bucky asked around a mouthful of pizza. "I'm still eating. You should have some too."

"I don't want to get grease on my sketchpad," Steve demurred.

Bucky rolled his eyes and held up his slice of pizza toward Steve's face. "What, you want me to feed you?"

An odd look crossed Steve's face, and then he picked up his own slice and said, "Okay, fine. You're such a mother hen."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. There was nobody else on earth who'd ever accuse Bucky of being a "mother hen," but Steve did seem to bring that trait out in him. "Not my fault if you don't have the sense to feed yourself. Even little baby chickens can handle that."

Steve laughed. "At least I don't have to worry about bullies stealing my lunch money these days."

"Thank God for that. I'm not in fighting shape anymore."

"I think you could still probably beat up a couple of elementary school kids."

"Well, sure, if they provoked me," Bucky said mock-seriously.

Steve washed his hands and started sketching.

"Do you want me to smize?"

"Just be yourself."

"Who even is that, anymore?" Bucky hadn't meant for that to sound bitter, but he realized it had.

"Just be my best friend. Bucky Barnes, the kid from Brooklyn who always wanted more for everybody."

"Huh. Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know. Bucky, you always had such high standards for yourself. But you always looked out for me, for your mom, for...for your fellow soldiers. And I think you're feeling badly because...you feel like you didn't succeed. And I don't know all the details, but I _know_ that whatever happened, you tried your very best, because that's who you are."

"Even if that's true, it didn't do much good, did it?"

Steve sketched quietly for a moment before replying, "Bucky, you know, if you ever want to talk, I'll listen."

"Yeah, because that's literally your job."

Steve shook his head. "Any time, Bucky, no matter what. I just want to make sure you know that. Natasha said you've been having a rough time."

"Oh my god, Nat is talking to you about me?" Bucky didn't know why he'd doubted that she would follow through on her threat; it had been foolishly optimistic of him.

"She has a lot to say, actually," Steve said with a grin. "Most of it isn't usable for the show, but she has...interesting insights."

Bucky sighed. "Of course she does. Look, Steve, I appreciate your concern, but, uh, I don't really want to talk right now. It's nothing personal. It's been kind of a long day."

Steve's face fell. "Okay. Do you want me to go?"

"Nah, you can finish your drawing. Just draw me with my mouth closed, I guess."

Bucky was glad that Steve knew enough to take Bucky's words at face value: he was happy for Steve's company, but he just wanted to enjoy the companionable silence. He watched Steve work. His brow was furrowed in concentration and his hand worked quickly. Whenever he looked up from the page at Bucky, he had an almost...reverent expression on his face. It was very different from the bored, irritated way most of the ANTM crew looked at him.

Finally, Steve put his pencil down and closed his sketchbook. "All set. Thanks for modeling for me, Buck."

"Wait, can I see it?"

Steve looked a little hesitant as he opened the book back up. "It's just a quick sketch, nothing too fancy."

"Is that really what I look like?" The face looking back at him was handsome, but somber. His eyes were filled with pain. But there was a hint of a smile playing around his lips.

"It's just a sketch," Steve repeated.

"My eyes…" Bucky said, and trailed off.

"It's nice to be able to see them again. I'm glad Tyra made you get that haircut."

"It's a great drawing, Steve. You're really talented."

"It's easy when I have such good subject material."

"Let's just hope the judges agree with you this week."

"You've decided you want to stick around, then?"

"Well, it seems like there are some perks to staying. DC’s finest pizza, and all."

Steve smiled and took his sketchpad back. "Good night, Bucky. Sleep tight."

"You, too."


	6. Forward March

The next week brought their first runway challenge. Bucky was prepared for this, having seen so many episodes of the show. As Bucky stalked down the practice runway, Miss J agreed that Bucky's hours of home research had paid off. "James, girl, you're a natural!"

"Thanks, I've been walking since I was a child," Bucky deadpanned. But he felt oddly proud of his stupid accomplishment. It was nice to be praised for something his body could do that wouldn't hurt anyone, even if it was just walking back and forth while wearing clothes.

After his moment in the spotlight, Bucky relaxed at the back of the crowd, spacing out while the others took their turns. Next to him, Sharon said, "It's kind of bullshit that they're making Rhodey do this."

"Huh. Yeah," Bucky said, watching Rhodey struggle with his crutches. He regretted the joke he'd made about how long he'd been walking. He knew, better than most, how it felt to suddenly be robbed of one's abilities. 

Sharon fumed, "Like, can't he just get a bye this week? Obviously he's not going to be a runway model. But he could still take photos. He's _hot_."

"Maybe we should say something to someone? Tyra told me I should advocate for myself."

"I mean, we could try, but Tyra's so unpredictable. One week she wants you to self-advocate, the next week maybe she thinks models should just be seen and not heard. And she clearly just does whatever she wants anyway."

"Yeah." Bucky weighed the merits of speaking up. His conscience would feel better, but he doubted it would do any actual good. And it might cause backlash from him, which would result in him getting sent home--away from Steve. Thinking of Steve, Bucky added, "Maybe one of the producers will say something."

"Doubt it, they're just here to stir up drama. They don't give a shit about us."

"I...I don't know if that's true of all of them."

Sharon snorted. "Which one has you fooled?"

"Steve? I think Steve cares about us."

She furrowed her brow. "The skinny blond one? Hmm...maybe. I haven't talked to him much. I get Nick for most of my confessionals. But still--Steve works here, at this show, so he can't be _that_ nice."

"People take jobs for all kinds of reasons," Bucky said defensively.

"I guess."

But Sharon was right that apparently no one had interceded on Rhodey's behalf. Their challenge that week was to walk a runway show on an outdoor stage in the Mall. It kept raining on and off, and the stage was slick, but Miss J insisted that _the show must go on_. 

Bucky was focused on his own wardrobe changes. He was slower at getting dressed with the prosthetic arm, and they'd all been warned about the strict time limits. He tried his best to walk down the runway with the confident, haughty strut that Miss J had encouraged. He still felt a little silly doing it, but the audience obviously responded to him.

He was feeling pretty good about himself after he walked his last look. Nat whispered, "Did you see what happened to Rhodey?"

"No, what?" Bucky asked, though his stomach fell in anticipation. Nat's tone didn't imply that a unicorn had spontaneously appeared and sprinkled glitter on Rhodey.

"He slipped and fell. It was awful. I was in the wings, waiting to go out next, but there was nothing I could do."

"Is he okay?"

"I think so. I mean, he got back up and finished the show. But it's still shitty."

"Yeah, they should have dried off the stage or something. Or just let Rhodey skip it."

"This show is bullshit," Nat said, and Bucky couldn't disagree.

Still, he was relieved in spite of himself when he was safe at that week's panel. Maria Hill had won the week, but for once, Bucky wasn't in the bottom two, and Tyra spoke glowingly of Bucky's improvement. It was definitely bullshit that Rhodey got sent home, but at least it meant Bucky could stick around and talk to Steve another week.

Except that after panel, he was pulled to record a confessional with one of the other producers. Bucky knew his name was Nick but he hadn't really interacted with him much.

"Where's Steve?" Bucky blurted out.

"Steve's been reassigned," Nick said, in a gravelly, no-nonsense tone.

"Like, permanently?"

"That's not your concern right now. Remember to rephrase my question in your answer and tell me, how did you feel about being safe this week?"

"I don't feel great about being safe this week because I don't like feeling that my success came at the expense of a disabled man being forced to walk down a slippery, wet runway."

Nick stared at him for a long moment and asked, "Do you have anything else to add?"

"Not really."

"Then you're dismissed."

Bucky went back to his bedroom with an uneasy feeling. Had Steve been fired? Or did Steve just finally get the message that Bucky wasn't somebody worth talking to? But when he stretched out to go to sleep, he found a note under his pillow. 

_Bucky--Whoops, guess someone got wind of our fraternization. I'm still around, though. I'll be by the pool around midnight if you want to come chat off the record. I won't make you rephrase my questions in your answers. Steve._ The note included a little cartoon of Tyra spying with binoculars and a shocked expression on her beautiful face.

Bucky grinned and slipped out at the appointed hour. Sam was sound asleep--he'd taken to early morning workouts, which left him pretty tired by the end of the day. 

"Hey, Steve. Sorry I got you in trouble."

"Eh, it was worth it," Steve said with a crooked grin.

"Are you, uh, permanently reassigned?"

"Nah, they just made me cut film clips as punishment. They already told me they want me back on my usual schedule. It turns out I'm pretty good at getting you guys to talk," Steve said, affecting a movie villain accent.

"That's worryingly true."

"Anyway, I saw your footage, you looked great on the runway. Congrats."

"Thanks. Feels kinda shitty to win at Rhodey's expense, though."

Steve winced. "Yeah, that was unfair what they did to him. I mean, you would have been fine anyway--you seriously killed it on the runway. But Rhodey didn't deserve to go home that way. It would have been such a simple fix to move the show indoors or postpone it, but of course it's more _dramatic_ to have it outdoors in the rain."

"This show's kind of bullshit. No offense."

"None taken. I...I still hope it's doing some good, to share all of your stories with everyone the way you are. But...I don't know. I think it could be better. I mean, I know it's not exactly educational programming, but there's still a...a sense of responsibility. Or there should be." Steve glanced at his watch and sighed. "I'd better go. I'll _really_ be in trouble if anyone sees me here. I just wanted to check in with you."

"Thanks, Steve. Have a good night. Don't get fired."

"If I do, it'll be worth it."

"If you do, I'll immediately quit the show. I couldn't stand it here without you."

"Sounds like a solid Plan B. But, hey, let's give Plan A another chance. Sleep tight and I'll see ya tomorrow, Bucky."


	7. Strategic Retreat

"Aw, coffee, yes!" Clint said, as he entered the communal kitchen and saw a full pot. He poured a cup, took a sip and said, "This is _strong_. Who made this, 'cause I wanna marry them."

Bucky raised his own mug in salute. "I accept your proposal."

"I'm not gonna lie, I was hoping it was Natasha, but still, I think this could be the start of something really beautiful."

Nat looked up from the pan of eggs she was scrambling and laughed. "I don't know if you could handle my coffee, Barton."

"Challenge accepted."

Nat smirked and said, "Eggs are ready." She served herself a plate and sat next to Bucky at the counter. Bucky took his own hefty serving and quietly ate while Clint and Nat bantered. The two former Green Berets hadn't served in the same battalion, but they turned out to have some connections in common. Too, they shared something of the same intense energy that seemed to be a prerequisite for special forces training.

Sam, freshly showered after his morning workout, slid across from Bucky at the counter. "Ooh, breakfast? Any left for me?"

"Help yourself," Nat said.

"Thanks. Maybe I'll make pancakes tomorrow. If y'all eat that kind of thing."

"Do I look like a picky eater?" Bucky asked.

Clint snorted. "You think any picky eaters survive basic training?"

"That's fair. What food did y'all miss most in service?" Sam asked.

"Good pizza," Clint said. "Of course, I still ate plenty of the bad pizza when I could get it."

"Pirozhki," Nat said.

"Hmm. I didn't really mind the food," Bucky admitted. "I'm not a picky eater. Plus I always got a lot of care packages to keep me going."

"Oh, you were one of _those_ guys," Clint said knowingly. "Nobody ever sent me _shit_."

"That's probably because you're such a fundamentally unlikable person," Nat said drily.

Clint snapped his fingers. "You're right! I can't believe I didn't think of that before."

Bucky stared down into his coffee, again feeling shitty about how he'd blown off Steve after he was discharged from the hospital. He knew not everyone was lucky enough to have friends like that.

"For me, I missed my mama's cooking," Sam said. He gave Bucky a long look before continuing, "I miss it here, too. Do you think I could bribe a PA or somebody to let me sneak off for Sunday dinner?"

"That sounds like a challenge," Nat said. They all glanced around the room and noticed that there wasn't a camera operator in the room. Their breakfast club had apparently been deemed less interesting than whatever was happening in the living room at the moment.

"Yeah, I think we could make that happen. In exchange for some leftovers," Clint said.

"Oh, for sure," Sam said with a grin. "My mama would rather die than let some skinny models go hungry. Especially not ones who also happen to be _American heroes_."

"Tyra Mail," Sharon called from the living room.

"Okay, we'll put a pin in that," Sam said.

Nat tapped her forehead. "I'm already planning." 

Bucky crammed his last bite of eggs into his mouth before they filed into the living room to hear Sharon read, "Our veterans are the wind beneath my wings." She put down the note and said, "I bet we're Victoria's Secret angels."

"That wouldn't be so bad," Sam said. "I'd look good with wings."

After they were hustled off to the next shoot, they learned that Sharon's guess wasn't quite right. They were going to be photographed wearing parachutes, suspended on cables rather than actually free-falling. That seemed fine to Bucky. Certainly easier than anything he'd done in basic training. He zoned out as Darcy applied a moderate amount of makeup to his face and a serious-faced assistant buckled him into a safety harness and explained the procedure for the shoot. After rattling off a list of instructions, he asked, "Got it?"

"Sure," Bucky replied. "It's not exactly rocket science."

"You're up next, so just wait right here. We're on a tight schedule with the safety coordinator."

That, Bucky could do. At least, he could do it until he heard the sounds of panicked breathing. He looked around until he found the sound's source: Sam, wedged under a makeup table with his knees to his chest. Bucky could see that he had his safety harness half-fastened.

Bucky crouched down in front of him, blocking him from the view of the camera operator who looked behind them. "Hey, uh...you okay?" he asked, even though Sam obviously wasn't. He remembered that Sam had been in the Air Force; that Sam had panic attacks on commercial flights now. Of course Sam would hate this stupid parachute challenge.

Sam let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. 

"Okay, uh...just breathe." Sam ignored him. Bucky tried to remember what Sam had done when Bucky had woken up with nightmares. "Uh...breathe in for...four? C'mon, look at me." He sat and counted with Sam for awhile.

A PA tapped him on the shoulder and said, "James, you're needed on the set."

"Fuck off, I'm busy," Bucky replied. To Sam, he said, "Hey. You're safe, okay? You're...I mean, you're still on America's Next Top Model, so it's not...the best place to be...but you're not in combat. Okay?"

Behind him, the PA said, "Seriously, though, they're being really strict with the schedule…"

"I seriously don't care," Bucky said. He shooed the PA away with a gesture and kept trying to soothe Sam. Eventually, Sam calmed down, breathing at a normal rate. 

"Thanks, Bucky," Sam whispered.

"You want some water or something?"

Sam nodded, and Bucky stood up to get a bottle from the green room. On the way, he ran into a different PA who said, "Uh, James, you're supposed to be on set _right now_ , you're missing your time!"

"Oh no, not that," Bucky said with an eyeroll. He _would_ miss seeing Steve after he got sent home, but he couldn't stand leaving Sam to suffer alone. The crew hadn't lifted a finger to help him, they'd just tried to film his trauma. Bucky brought the water to Sam and sat back down with him. 

"Thanks, man," Sam said. "I just...I wasn't expecting this today, and I just freaked out."

"It happens," Bucky said. "You good?"

"Yeah. Thanks. I'm just gonna take a second."

Bucky nodded and gave Sam an awkward shoulder squeeze before crawling back out from under the makeup table. He ran into the PA who'd spoken to him earlier. He said, "There you are! You missed your shoot!" 

"Oh well," Bucky said. "That means I can take off this harness, right?"

"Uh...I guess so, yeah." The PA seemed flustered by Bucky's calm response.

"Cool." Bucky changed back into his street clothes and lounged in the green room until Steve came and found him.

"Bucky, seriously, I thought you weren't trying to get sent home anymore?" Steve asked, his hands on his hips.

Bucky crossed his arms. "You want to wait for your camera operator to catch up?"

Steve reached down and turned off Bucky's body mic. "This isn't for the camera, it's just you and me. What are you doing?" 

"I saw one of my friends was having trouble, so I helped them."

Steve sighed. "I guess I can't fault you for that. But I don't think I can help you out of this one."

"I didn't ask you to."

"So then what's next?"

"You sure you don't want to be filming this?"

"I mean...what's next for us? Are you going to go back to pretending like I don't exist?"

Bucky sighed. "No, Steve, I...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freeze you out, it was just...too hard."

"But I could have helped. I don't know why you felt like you had anything to hide from me. I mean, you've been telling a television audience about what you went through, but you couldn't tell your oldest friend?"

"Sure. I don't give a fuck what the television audience thinks about me. I don't care what Tyra Banks thinks about me. But...I care what you think about me, Steve." Bucky licked his lips. He'd never quite been able to articulate that feeling before, but as he said it, he knew it was true. He wouldn't have been able to bear it if Steve had rejected Bucky, so he simply hadn't given him a chance.

Steve's face softened and he sat down on a makeup chair next to Bucky. "Bucky, there's nothing you could do that would make me think any less of you. And I'm sorry if I ever did anything to make you feel otherwise."

Bucky shook his head. "You didn't. It was all me."

"I just hate to think about you struggling on your own. I care about you, Bucky."

"I wasn't alone...I had Natasha."

Steve smiled. "She does seem like a good force to have on your side."

"Yeah, I'd hate to have her against me."

"Maybe I shouldn't say this, but Natasha told me--"

A PA interrupted. "Steve, you're needed at the shoot."

Steve stood up and gave Bucky a pleading look that Bucky wasn't sure how to interpret. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Bucky nodded and was was left staring at himself in the mirror. He thought he looked pretty good; Darcy had done a better job with the eyeliner this time around. Then he saw Nat's face in the mirror behind him. He turned and said, "Hey, Nat."

"Hey, Bucky. When are you going to ask that nice boy out?"

"Were you eavesdropping?" Nat was sneaky and nosy, which was a dangerous combination for a roommate to possess. Fortunately, Bucky’s life was usually so boring that she didn’t have much to see, which was probably why she'd ascribed such significance to that card from Steve she'd found.

"You answer my question and I'll answer yours."

Bucky sighed. "It's--I don't know. Complicated."

"It's not. I was definitely eavesdropping long enough to tell you that much," Nat replied with a smirk. "Seriously, I know you infantry boys aren't as brave as us Green Berets, but I didn't think you were a coward, Barnes."

"Wow. It's like that?"

"It's like that until you get your shit together." Nat gave him a friendly punch in the prosthetic arm. "Anyway, based on your complete lack of photographs, unless Tyra pulls some kind of truly unpredictable twist out of her bag, it looks like you're going home before me...so you'll have the apartment to yourself for awhile. Maybe you can have some fun for once."

"But Steve will still be here," Bucky blurted out.

Nat's smirk intensified. "Then you'd better get your shit together fast."

* * *

"James, unfortunately, you've made my choice very easy this week. I'm not holding your photo because you didn't even take one at this week's shoot. Do you care to explain yourself?" Tyra asked.

Bucky shrugged easily. "A friend needed help."

"That's very noble of you, but you know, in the fashion industry, punctuality matters. If something comes up, you have to put yourself first. You have to do what it takes to get the shot."

"Then I'm not interested in the fashion industry," Bucky said honestly.

Tyra shook her head. "James, you're a good friend, but a bad model. I'm sorry, but you are no longer in the running toward becoming America's Next Top Model. You need to immediately go back to the house and pack your bags." 

Bucky nodded and thanked Tyra. He was surprised to hear her call him a "good friend," but maybe he was. He’d like to be one, anyway, to those who needed a good friend. He turned to offer a handshake to Sam, whose photo--shaky but technically complete--had kept him in the running.

Sam shook his head and pulled Bucky into a hug. "I'm so sorry, man," he whispered. "I didn't realize…"

"Don't be sorry. Enjoy having the room to yourself while I'm back home eating New York pizza," Bucky replied with a smile.

Sam laughed and patted him on the back. "No way, you gotta come over to my parents' house for dinner before you leave DC."

A camera operator followed Bucky as he quickly packed up the few belongings he'd brought with him, then found himself in front of Steve for one last confessional recording.

"How do you feel about being eliminated?" Steve asked glumly.

"I feel fine about leaving the show. I didn't really feel like modeling is for me, anyway."

"Don't you think it's unfair that you didn't get another chance to shoot your photos?"

"I understand that there was a strict schedule that the photographer needed to stick to. I don't apologize for having different priorities. I'd make the same choice again."

"Is there anything you'll miss about being on the show?"

"I'll miss the friends I made here. And the friends I reconnected with here." He looked into Steve's eyes.

Steve smiled. "So what's next for you?"

"Probably not any modeling. Unless it's for talented young art students who don't have the sense to feed themselves."

"Thanks, Bucky, I think that's all we need from you." Steve looked at Bucky and then at the camera operator. "Hey, Phil, I think we're all set here. I'll catch up with you in a few." 

The camera operator smirked said, "I can cover for you, but only for a few minutes." He left Steve and Bucky alone in the small confessional booth. 

Steve said, "You know, if you were serious about still modeling for me...I'd actually love it if you'd let me interview you for a documentary project. I'm not sure this show ended up being the best way for you to share your story."

"Oh. Yeah, maybe? I'll think about it."

"Okay. But really think about it, okay? Please don't blow me off again."

Bucky licked his lips and said, "No, I won't. I mean, I will think about it. I won't blow you off again. Actually, um, what are you doing after this?"

"I'm supposed to edit this footage into something watchable."

"But you get a dinner break or something?"

"Yeah, I get a dinner break. Union rules, you know."

Bucky swallowed, suddenly more nervous than he'd been about anything that had happened while filming. "Could I take you out to dinner? For something besides craft services, I mean?"

Steve grinned. "Sure. Nothing wrong with fraternizing with a _former_ contestant."

"Just to be clear, Steve, I don't want to...fraternize with you."

"Oh? What do you want to do, then?" Steve had a mischievous look in his beautiful blue eyes.

Bucky stood up from his chair, unclippped his body mic, and said, "I want to kiss you."

Steve stood up too and said, "Well, what are you waiting for?" Bucky put his hand on Steve's cheek and kissed him softly. Steve wrapped his arms around him and kissed him back, much less softly.

After a long moment, Bucky pulled back and asked breathlessly, "Is there somewhere we can go where there aren't so many cameras nearby?"

"You sure? This could be an A-plotline." Bucky winced and Steve said, "Kidding. I'm kidding. Yeah, I have a hotel room." 

Bucky shouldered his backpack and let Steve guide him out of the models' house.

One of the other producers, Nick, called out, "Rogers, it's not time for your break yet. Where are you going?"

"I quit," Steve said.

"Wait, what?" Bucky asked.

Nick seemed completely unsurprised. "Good for you," he said. "You need to submit it in writing, though."

"I'll drop it off later, I'm busy."

"Steve, are you sure you want to do that?" Bucky asked.

"Absolutely. I...had my doubts about working on a show like this from the start, but I thought maybe I could change it from the inside, do some good...it turns out that I couldn't really. And getting to see you was the only reason I had left to stick around, so if you're going home, I might as well head back to Brooklyn sooner rather than later."

"God, Steve. Can I kiss you again?"

Steve smiled and tipped his face up toward Bucky's in reply. After they finally pulled apart, it was a quick walk to Steve's hotel. As they entered the room, Steve said, "Bucky, I just have one question…"

Bucky teased, "Do I have to use a form of your question in my answer?"

Steve laughed. "Not anymore. I was just going to ask...why'd you wait so long? I thought I'd made my interest pretty clear before, so I assumed you just...weren't interested."

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"In my card?" Steve asked. "The...last card I sent you...when you were in the hospital?"

Bucky looked at Steve with a furrowed brow. "Sorry, Steve, I--I mean, of course I remember getting letters from you but that time is all pretty hazy…"

Steve sighed. "The card where I told you that getting so close to losing you made me realize how much I loved you?"

Bucky blinked. So Natasha had been right after all. But Bucky didn't know how he was expected to understand that Steve meant to express a different sentiment than all his other well-wishers. "Oh, you really meant, like--"

Steve laughed and pulled Bucky's face down for another kiss. "Yeah. I really meant like."

"Sorry. I had a lot going on, and everybody was sending me these really flowery sympathy cards, and, besides that, well--I guess, to be honest, I never thought I deserved you."

"Aw, Bucky, that's so dumb," Steve said sweetly.

"Good thing you're into dumb guys, I guess."

"I'm into _you,_ anyway. But I don't think you're dumb, just...mistaken about some things."

"I'll take that." Bucky said with a smile. "But now I have a question for you."

"Shoot."

Bucky broke out his best Tyra Banks impression and sang, "You wanna be on top?"

Steve laughed and playfully pushed Bucky down onto the bed. Bucky might not have won a lucrative modeling contract or supply of Cover Girl cosmetics, but he was sure he’d ended up with that cycle’s biggest prize.


End file.
